


Promising Words

by silvercyanide



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, because they were so cool in the movie, only slash if you squint, the intention was there though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercyanide/pseuds/silvercyanide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard's daughter is worried that he will not come back from the Battle so Bard must make some promises. He gets a promise from the Elven King in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promising Words

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said in the tags, it's only slashy if you squint, but I haven't written a fic in a while so I'm sort of easing myself back in! Enjoy!

“Da!” Tilda bursts through the tent flaps with a half dozen elven soldiers on her heels, still elegant in their haste, their movements careful and controlled and synchronised in a way that could never be replicated by man. “Da!”

“Tilda,” Bard bends his knees and opens his arms, sweeping his youngest up and onto his hip in one swift motion. “What have you been getting yourself into?” his tone is playful but the glare he shoots at the elven guards is practically murderous. He turns to Thranduil even though he’s itching to draw his own weapon against the armed elves threatening his daughter, he figures he must be diplomatic in the face of war and merely stares into the cold elf’s eyes.

The Elven-King, lounging on his make-shift throne with an air of impatient disdain, fixes his icy eyes on Tilda and his head cocks slightly to the side as he takes her in. “The day a mortal can kill me will be the day I deserve to die.”

There’s a quiet clinking of metal on metal as the guards bow and depart, silent and stony faced as they had been when they came in.

“Tilda,” Bard says softly when he’s sure the soldiers are gone, “You’re supposed to be with Sigrid and Bain helping the sick and wounded.”

“But Da,” Tilda squirms a little until she can wrap her skinny arms around Bard’s neck. “One of the Bellary boys said you might not come back!”

Bard sighs and presses a kiss into Tilda’s curly hair. “I will,” he promised, “I will come back to you. I will not leave you alone.”

Her arms tighten briefly around his neck and Bard heads for the tent flaps, prepared to carry her back to the great hall.

“Bowman,” Thranduil’s voice is soft and Bard turns to see him standing calmly beside the table they had been making their war plans on, one long fingered hand hovering over a chess piece they had been using as a point for one of the elven legions that would defend from the west. “Your council, if you will?”

Tilda whimpers, clinging tighter to her father’s neck and Thranduil softens his face into something that’s Bard assumes is supposed to be a smile as he strides forwards to stroke Tilda’s hair. “I will not keep him long child,” he says, pale fingers patiently tugging through the young girl’s hair until she turns to look at him. “Let me have someone escort you back to the hall, young miss, and your father will join you presently.”

Bard hugs his daughter tighter against him for a moment before allowing her to slither to the ground.

Thranduil places a delicate hand on Tilda’s shoulder and leads her to the tents exit, pushing aside the flap and gesturing to a sentry in the same movement. “This is Tialdire, she will make sure that you do not get lost in the dark.”

The young girl nods, her mouth set in a grim line, but she accepts the hand that Tialdire offers and Thranduil watches them for a moment before letting the curtain fall between them. “Explain to me why you believe this squadron would do better on the south line,” he says abruptly and Bard blinks once before sitting down in his chair and settling down to explain his arguments again.

They continue to hash out battle plans for two hours, until the sky has turned dark outside and Bard is trying to hide his yawns behind thoughtful strokings of his moustache and well-timed sips of the wine the Elven King had poured for him an hour before.

It’s the fourth time that Bard shifts uncomfortably in his seat that Thranduil rolls his ice blue eyes skyward and sighs. “Retire to your hall Bowman,” he says from his throne. “I cannot have you commanding an army if you have not slept.”

“I-” Bard begins to grunt his response, aiming to tell the elf exactly where to shove his orders, but Thranduil’s eyes flash and the archer falls silent.

“Go.”

This command is easier to swallow and Bard realises that it’s because he had quite forgotten just how dangerous the majestic king could be. He bows after standing to take his leave, not from the hips as his mother had taught him, but a slight hunching of his shoulders and inclination of his head, respectful but not deferring to the elder King.

He walks to the tent flaps and stretches out a hand, calloused fingers just brushing the material when he hears an almost pained intake of breath behind him.

“Thranduil?” he spins on his heel just in time to see the king collapse back into his throne looking older than Bard has ever seen him.

Bard takes two long strides before Thranduil holds up his hand, “I am fine, mortal,” he murmurs. “You have things to worry about other than me. For instance, I am sure your daughter is waiting for you.”

Bard nods, his jaw clenched to prevent worries, fears, and questions from escaping, and turns back towards the exit before he can do something stupid like check the elf’s forehead for a temperature the same way he’d done many a time for the children.

“I will take care of them,” Thranduil’s voice is soft and for a moment Bard is not sure that these words are for his ears but the King continues regardless of Bard’s hesitation. “If you do not fulfil your promise to your daughter. They will not be alone.”

Bard swallows past the lump in his throat and blinks back the tears that are suddenly threatening to fall. He keeps his back to Thranduil when he responds in a small, soft voice.

“Thank you.”

He leaves the tent without another word but with a strange sense of peace that he had not felt since his wife had passed.

It seems, Bard thinks as he walks to the hall, that the Elven King has more of a heart than I once thought.

**Author's Note:**

> The elf's name is pronounced 'Tea-al-deer' if anyone was curious. My sister did point out that it sounded a lot like Tilda but I couldn't think of anything else, whoops!


End file.
